


Letters from Ham Common

by clearinghouse



Series: Ham Common [1]
Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: A New Burrow, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bright Stars, Epistolary, Fluff, Ham Common, Literature, M/M, Mentions of Prison, Romance, Whiskey and Sullivans, ides of March, rafflesweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-03 04:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10236344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearinghouse/pseuds/clearinghouse
Summary: (What if Raffles found a reason to stay in the peaceful countryside of Ham Common?)Finding himself suddenly in the thick of a delicate business concerning him and Bunny, Raffles writes a series of letters to his sister seeking advice. Raffles can’t reveal that he is alive, however, so he writes under an alias.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [#rafflesweek](https://www.tumblr.com/search/rafflesweek) on Tumblr.

Dear Mrs ___,

To you I wish the brightest and most pleasant of the autumn season. It is regrettable that some years have passed since we have last shared company, though not since I have last enjoyed my memories of those sweet days of childhood. In some ways, you spoiled me for adulthood; that sporting blood of yours which made you a ready and worthy player in all manner of games does not, I have long since discovered, run through the veins of most. Your charming and abrupt wit, too, I have missed; but it is your sisterly warmth and sympathetic smile that comes foremost to my mind as I cast my thoughts back to simpler times. It is some combination of the above that compels me to write to you, at long last.

How are you and your husband? Does he continue to keep a successful parsonage? I am all interest to know of any developments that you and he may be planning for your combined future, or that have already come to pass in my long absence. 

I daresay it is no surprise if you do not remember me. My name may not have struck you as familiar when you first beheld it on the envelope’s address. However, since you have had the kindness to peruse this letter from a stranger, perhaps it is an agreeable request that I make when I ask you to read all that I have to say in its entirety, and to give the matters that have disturbed my tranquil life your most exacting and most discreet judgement. 

It is from you, having found merry success in your marriage, and having been a dear friend to me in a past life—it is only from you that I can seek advice. 

I do not believe you are acquainted with my brother. Let me introduce you to him; he is a younger, shortish fellow, with light hair, a medium build, a face of perpetual innocence, and skin too pale for his own good. As you likely have guessed, he is not actually my biological brother, though I have long considered him to be as near to me as even my most beloved family relation. I will refer to him instead as my friend. He is kindhearted and good, though he has difficulties with his writing career. Moreover, an evil influence came upon him in recent memory, an influence for which he has paid more than was his due. He and society at large are no longer willing to partake of each other. 

I was prevented from sharing in much in his life, accounting to my being away in Australia for some little fraction of it. He was able to take up rooms in Ham Common, in Richmond; my poor health gave me cause to leave what small place I had made for myself on the other side of the world and to return to his side in London, where I might abuse my friend’s hospitality in a manner most welcome to him. 

In all the world I have no romantic attachments or prospects. Neither can my friend boast of any such standing. Between the two of us, we have many loose acquaintances, but few friends. Yet, believe me when I tell you that this is not an anxiety for us. We spend most days almost entirely together—more so than we ever did in years past. When we take our whiskey and soda, we are satisfied with each other’s presence alone. My friend is a very earnest and pleasant chap, and I much prefer it when he orbits around me as he does. That may be putting it too lightly; rather, I prefer his orbit exceedingly. When he looks upon me, he smiles with the gladness of a rising, beaming sun, and speaks my name with a joy that baffles me as I reflect upon the reverent tone of his voice. Truth be told, he enflames my worst vanity. This tricky fellow has made me depend upon his unconditional and constant admiration, as any actor would greedily bask in the praise of his most esteemed audience.

I’ll own that there are occasions when I invoke his irritation or hurt. At these moments he is less cheerful to greet me, and very ready to meet my friendly quips with the bitterest of sardonicism; but he does greet me all the same. He is eager merely to have me near, even when I have yet to make amends for wounds I have made upon him.

So much is well and settled. Here, however, is where I begin to touch upon the singular disturbance that wants your attention.

It occurred a couple of weeks ago. He and I were enjoying whiskey and a couple of my favourite cigarettes in the reception room of our apartment. We had just taken turns reading to each other from one of the more tragic and dark of his many books, and were separately pondering the novel. We had done quite well reading the thing aloud. I have a small talent for taking on any role which comes by me; my friend, on the contrary, was by no means born for the theatre, but give him a book that has enamoured him, and he’s off like a firecracker. 

The very first pattern to our style of dramatic reading was to trade off on whole chapters, or well-demarcated sections of chapters. This evening, we’d taken to trading off at every new paragraph. This happened to work well on account of him owning two editions of the work, and thus we each had a copy in our hands. The editions were similar enough, even though the newer was so much more fatalist and conservative than the older that we could hardly keep from snickering like children at the difference. As you may wonder about who read from which, I will tell you that I read from the newer edition, and my friend from its senior of thirteen years. Our tastes ran opposite to our chosen editions, of course; the game was to see which of us could pull off his burden with the more earnestness.

At any rate, it was my friend who was still thrumming with the passion of dramatic reading when we smoked our cigarettes, even into the late hours. Freshly energized, he suggested that we take a shot at a play-script in the same fashion. We had read play-scripts in the past, but this time he submitted that we might each take on one role in the play, and be confined to it, as though we were performing the piece.

The attractive idea had crossed my mind before. When it had, I had dismissed it immediately, for I did not presume that my friend was equal to such a demanding activity. I am glad to admit that I was mistaken, though it escapes me how someone who is so contrary to performing for an audience can take pleasure in performing for only himself and his fellow.

I told him that it was a fine suggestion, and if he had any work in mind?

I would have been hard-pressed to think of any such two-person play on the spot, but he had one ready. It was one of Plato’s many comedies in which Socrates toys with the ignorance of his companion. I was my friend’s candidate for Socrates. Mind, he did not mean it as a mere politeness; he honestly thought it self-evident that I take on the superior part. 

To his compliment I did not acquiesce. I wanted to see how he might exert himself as the clever lead. This was a new test, and in the realm of new tests he has a knack of surprising me pleasantly. I insisted to him that I was far too fatigued to play the lead, and once I’d won my way despite his best arguments, he dove into our library for a copy of the short script.

There was only one copy in the flat, and it was bundled in a larger tome as one member of a collection. It was agreed that we both needed to have our eyes constantly on the text, so we realized that we could not stride independently about the room with our own lines in our hands, as true actors would. This was not a problem for us. I proposed that we sit together on the sofa, and he assented merrily. 

This was the chain of events that led to his side rubbing against me while we each held an end of the same book. It was a silly, cozy arrangement. At first, he was shy to be playing the wise man to my presumptuous foil, but very quickly he was practically singing out his winding and inhospitable dialogue. We had an especially merry time of it. I recall vividly how we exaggerated our friendly antagonism. His knee moved excitedly against mine. He smiled that boyish and endearing smile of his, and a strong contentment descended over me. 

Then, the disturbance: his free hand inched to rest upon mine.

It wasn’t a bold movement, nor was it anything like a flirtatious one. It was a steady, simple press—similar in its firm character to a handshake, though more affectionate. The unexpected and fascinating contact from him provoked a delightful little spark of fondness deep in my chest. He tried to make it look somewhat unconscious and merely a matter of being comfortable in his seat. Nor did his hand linger long. He retracted his touch from me after a few long moments, when I failed to give him an outward response—and somehow, the loss saddened me.

I did not spend too long puzzling over his action at the time, even though it was unusual. We went on reading for a quarter of an hour after that, without losing our fervour, and we were altogether having too much of a good time for me to waste it on idle consideration of what he’d meant to communicate with his familiar hand on mine. 

It has since been several days, however, and the tingling of the caress of his fingers will not leave me. I felt it only briefly, yet the gentle warmth of that sensation haunts me at every hour. I find that I am spending too much time merely imagining sitting beside him again and regaining his friendly warmth, while I listen to him breathe and feel his genuine smile on me once more. I’ve considered recreating those circumstances that had eliminated the space between us, even though I do not understand why I should so acutely desire such an unneeded physical proof of our strong friendship, or why he should have elected to put his hand on me at all. Those reverent, guileless gazes from my friend that once made me smirk with self-satisfaction now make me wonder at what their true depths might be.

As I have said, he is very dear to me. By my own mistakes, I lost him once, and hurt him greatly by it; I absolutely cannot lose him again. In many ways, he is my life. To talk with him, smoke cigarettes with him, and ride at nights on bicycles with him—these are the highlights of an existence that is otherwise insufferably limited to the dull, quiet edges of the countryside. If ever I accomplish anything impressive nowadays, and if ever I needed an admirer to look upon those accomplishments, then he alone is the only admirer wanted—and the only one immensely admired in turn. I will not presume to take liberties with my closest mate, nor can I risk assuming the wrong thing of him.

But, if all he desired from me were occasional touches to the hand—if the truth was not scandalous, but rather that our friendship was so strong a platonic bond that it defied the puritanical conventions of English propriety, and two good friends could be permitted to hold hands in a private scene, and to console one another in that private manner—would you call it a liberty taken, then, if I were to return his show of fondness? Could it be offensive to him, do you think?

I am too deeply in the thick of it to know where the proper lines must be drawn. More importantly, my track record in these matters is too terribly poor. Every other relationship of importance to me inevitably falls apart—as often as not by my own self-sabotage. This relationship, however, I must not risk to that fate. I must call upon a better, clearer, and purer mind than my own for guidance. 

That is all; I have had my say, for the time being. I must ask you to forgive me for the indistinctness of the details, which the subject matter requires of me.

If you have an opinion on what course I ought to pursue next, then your judgement is most welcome. If, on the other hand, you choose to wash your hands of this whole affair and deign not to answer me, or to only answer me as much as your politeness dictates, then I will find my own way, and pray that I have not bothered you unduly.

I suspect that, in either case, the ending of this particular drama of mine may interest you, since you have now been teased with the beginning of it. In addition, I have found over the course of writing this note that I have missed you more than I supposed. There is a mental image, golden in my brain, of you reading this and laughing heartily at me and my silly little problem. You may expect future letters from me, unless I am bidden to turn my attentions elsewhere. I am

Very sincerely yours, 

Ralph


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Mrs ___,

It may be for any number of reasons that I have yet to receive a response from your hand. Some business may have called you away from home, for example, or you may not yet have divined an answer to my curious problem, or you simply may not wish to answer. Whichever the case may be, I have no doubt that you do recall me, if in fact you did read my first letter. It doesn’t feel as if too much time has passed since you last asked me to preach in your husband’s place—and that was so that you might give me a reason to attend church, I daresay. I have promised to keep you informed of developments, and I will do so with the following addendum.

I ought to have clarified before that I am no stranger to the world of romance. You are as a sister to me, and so I will necessarily spare you details that are neither useful nor relevant; I will only share what is essential for one to know if one is to grasp the current circumstances. The long and short of it is that I have made the acquaintance of many women, and never in my years was I involved in anything of a Wildean nature. Nor did I ever earnestly ponder a turn in that direction. It was always my policy never to mix the hard world of men with the soft one of women—a rule to which you were my one exception!

Although, the flatmate I introduced you to in the previous letter may prove to be the second exception. But I cannot assert that for certain at the moment. None of this is yet clear to me. I entreat you to make the decision for yourself.

Some time ago, while on an innocent walk around the common, I caught eye of a canvas hammock secured with hooks on two trees at the front of a neighbour’s property. Immediately the idea of privately owning such a quaint resting spot attracted me. In a sudden fever of purpose, I determined to have one of my own. It would be a welcome luxury that both my flatmate and I could enjoy at our leisure, I told myself. My mind settled, I immediately made a close examination of how the canvas had been affixed to the two wooden posts, and observed how a hole had been drilled into each.

It struck me later, as I returned home, that there are two trees perfectly positioned outside my bedroom for a restful hammock to be strung up between them. Large French doors provide a direct exit from my room to the outside yard; the two trees I speak of are thirty feet opposite these doors, just before the wilderness of the hedges prevents any further passage along that way. I measured the distance from one tree to the other, and knew then that I must find an especially large hammock to accommodate that considerable distance.

Finally, my opportunity came one week ago, during an innocent bicycle ride with my friend. I won’t go into the details of the adventure by which I came across my perfect match; all I will say is that hammocks seem to be a popular amenity among the most privileged of the countryside, and that my sudden interest in one estate’s beaten-looking sling gave my friend much cause for equal amounts of surprise and amusement. 

Late the next morning, I tied the hammock to the trees with rope. I used simple knots, and not hooks drilled into the wood, to spare my landlady lasting damage to the specimens. Satisfied with the setup, I spent much of the day lying along the canvas and feeling gratified by my own success. I spent hours doing nothing but brooding over life and breathing in the fresh air underneath those few holdout leaves which have yet to brighten and fall.

That was the state my friend found me in that afternoon, and in the evening that followed. Though he did not have any obsession with the thing like I did, he tilted his head and wondered at how I could be so infatuated with it. 

After dinner, I returned once again to my novel bed. Shortly thereafter, my friend came out to find me. To the side of my half-cocoon, he stood with his arms akimbo, and let his amusement show.

“I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen you look so serene for so great a portion of a single day,” he said, with good humour. “Do you plan to sleep out here as well?”

I answered him in the negative. “But it is a very charming pastime,” I said. “It reminds me of lying in a small boat, except with the advantage that it always settles perfectly into balance when it is upset. Why, do you not like it?”

“I cannot say, since I have not used it.”

“Then, you ought to consider using it.”

“How can I? You have claimed it.”

“I did not mean at quite this moment,” I said, though I appreciated the validity of his argument. I had been in the thing nearly the entire day, and he hadn’t had a chance to try it for himself. Of course, I remembered that I had originally fancied the hammock as a gift for my friend as much as it was for myself, and my lack of altruism chafed me somewhat. Ass that I was, I thought to myself not of surrendering the hammock, but instead, of how the hammock was an especially large one.

My friend was looking up thoughtfully at the stars that the dark sky was beginning to unveil, when I spoke again. 

“There should be room for the two of us on this,” I said, with a lightness that seems awfully asinine in hindsight.

He was surprised, as if I had said something unbelievable. There was a pretty, startled glimmer in his widening eyes, and a sort of hopeful ring to his gentle voice. “Are you suggesting that I might join you?” 

I readily replied that I didn’t see why he shouldn’t.

He hesitated, and that bothered me unpleasantly. While beginning to fear that I had somehow erred with my companion, I waited for his answer with bated breath. Then, thankfully, he smiled in a diffident manner, and agreed with an anxious nod and the smallest of shrugs.

I hadn’t anticipated how difficult it is for two decent people to share a hammock. The contraption is not meant to be shared by two grown men. He crawled onto it, and instantly the weight shifted so that I rose and he sank. He struggled into position, and I helped him by moving over. We laid alongside one another. His foot was near my shoulder, and his head was beside my ankle. Once the sling found its equilibrium, he had no choice but to fall back as dictated by the forces of nature. To sit upright in a hammock is a dignity unfit for mortals.

Nor could he possibly have kept the length of his body from running flush against mine. He did try to keep himself apart, and swiftly gave up within a matter of seconds. One might expect that this would be an irritation to me, and yet his company was actually most welcome. He was warm, and the night air was not. The closeness reminded me of the time we had read Greek together, and the recollection of that sweet memory added simultaneously to my good mood and to my uncertainty of what my friend’s true thoughts might be.

The stars were large and bright that night, even if the moon was not. For a while, we did not speak. The noises of tiny, unseen creatures were all that broke the stillness and the quiet.

He was the one who first mentioned the stars. Specifically, he remarked on the positions of the constellations, and how they had changed. I had once given him a telescope, and he had used it for stargazing; it seemed to be from this time that he drew his scientific inferences. I watched how he looked upon each quadrant of the sky. I could not quite see his eyes from where I was, but it was plain that he was using them to trace precise, familiar paths from one heavenly body to the next. 

“Did you ever make a study of the constellations?” I asked him. Truth be told, I am not generally captivated by the stars myself, but to observe his genuine interest in them was to suddenly become interested in them. “You did speak of them with some familiarity during the years of school, if I’m not mistaken.”

This remark embarrassed him in the best way, and I relished his reaction. “Yes, well, there were some nights during which all I could do was look at the stars, you know,” he said, and I quite understood his meaning. You see, as a child he had often stayed up late for me, as a kindness to me; I never forgot it. “I knew the stars fairly well, back then. I’m afraid I don’t remember much of the map anymore, though the stars still are just as mesmerizing, if I stare at them long enough. What about you?”

I waved my hand. “Oh, I have a sailor’s knowledge of them.” 

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I know how to use the celestial bodies to orient myself. I can, at least, identify the important ones. The moon, the north star, the body of the great bear. The rest of the stars could be completely rearranged at random tomorrow, and I would never notice.”

My friend snorted in a funny way. “I thought you were fond of beautiful things,” he joked. 

“Oh, are the stars beautiful things?” I joked in reply. “Perhaps they are, a bit, if one dispenses with the notion of stark white lines connecting them.”

He huffed in mock outrage. “If you really have such an opinion of the constellations, I’m glad I never knew it as a youth. I liked those lines more than the stars themselves. The stars make no sense without them.”

“You don’t say? Then you can have your lines, and I can own the stars. That’s good, I’ve always wanted to have them in my private possession. They’d make a fine show on the wall opposite my bed, I think. But don’t you despair, my dear chap; you and your lines will be warmly welcome to come by and litter my pristine showcase with your Latin names and your right angles on any day you like.”

He must have adored my suggestion as much as it offended him. He muttered my name aloud in a fierce mixture of incredulity and admiration. This suited me, and I grinned with pleasure.

Then, I comprehended something extraordinary: his bare hand was on mine once more. In this instance, it was his left hand upon my left, and he did not retract it. Somehow I hadn’t taken awareness of it for several moments. Directly I did, I was distracted by the softness of his fingers. That is not to say the hold itself was soft. His hold was sure and steady, and filled me a peculiar calmness. His fingertips were on my knuckles, and his thumb was on mine. He is shorter than me, and this size difference is reflected in our extremities. I was tempted to look down and compare us; however, I did not wish to frighten my friend away by drawing attention to his audacious move. 

My good sense must have left me. Saying nothing, and keeping my attention on the dark sky, I dragged my thumb to quietly lie atop his own.

There was a small intake of breath from him. It set off in me an unbearably sweet feeling. The earth might as well have stood still, for how time slowed its pace. I wished to the heavens that I could know what thoughts were running through his mind. Is there something more he wants from me?

After a few very long seconds, I managed to tilt my head briefly to get a better look at him. He was blushing. His lips were curved in delight. He might have been laughing. He was a childlike picture of happiness. My own heart grew light, and beat too strongly in my chest. I was impressed when he raised his head to look back at me. I only tightened my grip on his soft hand, and let myself fall back on the hammock and turn my eyes again to the autumn stars. I closed my eyes, and savoured the genial experience of lying on a cloud with my sympathetic friend to rest beside. My curiosity about my friend was temporarily allayed. My laziness was infectious to him, and a splendid peace descended upon us both.

It was all exceptionally innocent. There was nothing shameful to our closeness. Despite that, a shocking thought comes to me: I could see myself settling down in this dull place, forsaking everyone else, and committing to grow old with someone who should have been my least likely choice. That is not the kind of thought that one has of a friend. 

Within the bounds of such a respectable and informal bond, can there not be something very similar to romance—can there not exist a partnership which is at the same level of commitment and loyalty as marriage, but is between two friends—?

Or, if my chosen partner someday adds to the confusion by confessing that he, in fact, does take on a Wildean turn, could that—it is difficult to put into words, yet, I must sooner or later ask myself, could that not also be agreeable—?

My own answer is that it need not be the ruin of us, but your own perspective would be of greater use to me.

I wonder what you would think of him, if ever in the distant future you two were to finally meet. Even if you do not, it means a good deal to me that you should know of him at all. Out of respect, I have not told him as much of you. I do not think that I am entitled to do so, being so far removed from you as I have sadly come to be. 

Write to me soon, if it pleases you. I am

Very sincerely yours,

Ralph


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Mrs ___,

These letters of mine better resemble a journal than a correspondence. One who does not know you well might suspect that you were offended by the content, but too shy to write to me yourself to say so. One who knows you well, however, might suspect that you are biding your time, waiting until I have exhausted my own wits before swooping in like a guardian angel to light the way to blessed reason. I hope that is the case.

If it is, then now is your moment. Finally, we’ve reached the climax of our drama, and I know not which way my friend and I are destined to fall—only that we are surely to fall. For good, or for ill, is beyond me to judge; it is terribly painful to my heart, and it is also a marvellous feeling.

The blow fell this morning, and in retrospect, I am mostly to blame. We were remarking upon the recent developments in South Africa in the paper. Or, at least, I was remarking upon them. Nothing in international politics appeals to my friend, who would prefer to confine his attentions to the cricket scores, or, when those are not present, his coffee. 

My friend has none of that sporting blood that I have, and that you also have. He is a retiring fellow. In a devil like me, there is always a need for the game. Nothing like it was ever born in him, though I can infect him with my own spirit, at times. That may be why some element of wars attracts me alone. The political game of cat and mouse is intriguing to the affected bystander, certainly, but it is the fight on the battlefield that I speak of. That breed of visceral struggle must be the most fair and thrilling of any there ever was. It engages the mind and the body to their fullest. There is something in the thought of throwing oneself into a grand struggle between men who are giving it their all, and at the end of it facing admiration in the gloried light of the patriots instead of the vile shadow of the murderers. 

But it is not a notion that I seriously consider for long; for, whenever I do, within that image of the exploding field of honour, I turn my head to see that there is a golden young man behind me, watching me, holding a gun that is too heavy for someone with as good and weightless a soul as his. Like a fellow fighter from a civilized land deigning to impose its civilization on the far reaches of the earth, he follows me to risk life and limb in the land of no return. Yet he seeks no glory for his troubles, and neither could someone as mild as him expect to earn any. All the same, he follows me, leaving my side only when his military duties require it.

If war is to happen, and if it called to me, then either it is two tickets I purchase, or none at all. He would make certain of that. I cannot say which of those two choices would win me. In favour of the fatal purchase, I say: there is absolutely nothing that wants me in London, except for he, and he would still be with me. Against it, I say: he would likely survive, and then where will I have left him, my dear admirer and companion?

This was the train of thought that I was entertaining when the flicker of my friend at the corner of my vision broke me off my rails. Our exceedingly kind landlady had just removed herself, and we were alone with our coffee. I was sitting down, with the paper in my lap. He was standing, and looking out the window. Both hands were clutching his hot cup.

He looked young to me, not unlike how he was in our school days. He was entirely focused on something outside, and there was a dreamy, sad air about him. I thought I would like to know what it was that captured his interest. I casually left my coffee and my paper on the table and moved to join him.

Two of our neighbours were out on the road. They were a lady and her suitor, by all appearances, or more likely they were married. It was unusual to see two people as young and well-groomed as them walking by themselves in our neck of the woods. The man’s arm was around the woman’s waist, and she was leaning a little into him. They were keeping a slow pace, so that they could maintain their closeness to one another. On each face there was a naive cheerfulness. 

As the two passed along the road by our rooms, my friend let out a little sigh. It was only at that moment that I understood why he had taken such a shine to these strangers. He wanted what they had. This, coming from a man who never wants anything. I wouldn’t stand for it.

Copying the man of the pair with a boldness that you would be proud of, I gently put my hand to the small of my friend’s back.

In an instant, he gasped and stared at me. I felt him flinch, though he did not recede from me.

“Is this all right?” I asked.

He blinked, not understanding me or my motives.

To make my meaning clear, I moved my touch further along, so that my arm would wrap warmly around him, like the man’s around the woman’s.

“Oh.” My friend forced out a dry chuckle and a huff, and began moving away. “I’m being mocked for my sentiment, am I?”

“Not at all,” I replied sharply. My seriousness was a stubborn wall against the weak prod of his false levity. “I would not mock you. This nearness is the sort of thing you like, is it not?” I decided to soften the thing with a hint of a sly grin. “I’m not against it, if you’re not.”

He stopped his shy retreat, and remained in my hold. I wondered with a peculiar expectancy if he would lean against me, but he did not. “That’s… awfully kind of you, then.” He beamed genuinely, then, but just a little. “Though, it’s a bit silly.”

That wasn’t the word for it that I would have liked to hear. “Silly, did you say?”

“Well, I know we’re not like those two people.”

This irked me. No two people are on better terms of intimacy than are me and my flatmate, I thought. I did not take that intimacy of ours lightly, and I knew he that he, too, did not. I challenged him. “And how are we not like them, pray tell?”

“What?” The false smile returned in full force. “You joke, surely? I’m talking about the man and the woman on the street.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Well, we’re not exactly a man and a woman! Look at them.” He did, and the sight entranced him. “Don’t you see? They’re a couple, in love.”

I was not about to be outdone in my friend’s heart by those two children who were now leaving the view of our reception room. It hurt, when he wasn’t looking at me. As some warm, addictive sensation that I cannot name coursed through me, my fingers slid up his back in a possessive manner. I tenderly kissed his cheek. 

It was obvious, from the quakes in the surface of his coffee, that he shook where he stood. The false smile fell away into a faceless stupor. The two strangers were forgotten, much to my sweet satisfaction. He turned to me again, his eyes wide and his jaw dropped in shock, searching me for an explanation. 

“Why did you kiss me?” His voice was no more than a tremor.

“Because, I am terribly fond of you, and I enjoy reminding you of it.” With my spare hand, I caressed the side of his face, opposite where I had kissed him. My heart was beating madly underneath my cool, contained exterior. “If I can be of any use to you, my dear chap, I am forever at your service.”

He averted his pretty eyes. “I… don’t follow you.”

Again, the image of the battlefield was in front of me, full of guns firing and rubbish blowing apart. Again, there was my loyal man behind me. I was pulled by two needs; one, the need for the sporting diversion, and two, the need to make my friend smile and laugh and be happy with me. One pulled at me with much more power and ferocity than the other.

I asked, with unfair suaveness and a deliberate lack of details, “Do you want another kiss?”

He wet his dry throat. “Um… sure, all right…”

Taking the opportunity gladly, I held his chin, and kissed him chastely on the lips. 

I’m not ashamed of what I did. If I were, you would be the last to hear of it. I swear that it was a move as innocent as my kiss upon his cheek had been. Though it was not erotically exciting, exactly, to lock my lips with his, it wasn’t bad, either; that fact alone was a blissful relief to me. There was even a simple quaintness to kissing him. It delighted me in a blameless way—in a very new way, with a depth of bond that I’d never felt with another. I revelled in his sweetness. It was akin to the relaxing feeling of coming home—

A rude, hot splash at my stomach compelled me to move away.

“Sorry—I’m sorry!” My shaken friend hastily set aside his cup, and what meagre amount of coffee remained in it. “I didn’t mean—sorry!” 

Not yet completely returned to myself, I glanced abstractly at the damage. The centre of my shirtfront was doused. My trousers had been spared any damage. I had the presence of mind to chide myself for not foreseeing this possibility. 

“It is no problem,” I assured him after a moment, though a fresh problem presented itself. I did not want to leave him, but I had to change my clothes. Well-fitting clothes are hide to come by for me, and I didn’t have the luxury of letting pieces go to waste. 

Yet my friend was stricken with horror at the spill. “Did I hurt you?”

I was touched by his concern, and sympathetic to his miserable affect. I smiled; the shirt lost all its importance to me. “No, it is only warm.” It was astounding, how quickly I lost concern for my clothes. Better that I dispense with the shirt and stick with him, I decided, than to keep a shirt. Besides, in my mind, it was entirely my own fault, for having so thoroughly laid a surprise on my friend as I did. I undid and un-cuffed my shirt, leaving only the short-sleeved vest underneath, planning on tossing it with the dirty clothes and forgetting about it. 

He took the shirt from me, taking care to avoid looking at me. “I’ll… I’ll go have it cleaned for you right away.”

“I insist, it is fine—” I cut myself off sharply.

My dear companion was crying, and trying not to.

How very deeply did I hate to see him sad, with all of my fiery soul. I stepped forward, fully planning on kissing him again. If it would repair his spirit, I would kiss him a thousand times over. I longed to embrace him, and to carry him safely through however he was hurting. I spoke his name softly. 

But he rejected my advance with a shake of his head. It sent a surprisingly painful split through me. “I’m sorry that I complicate everything,” he said, and with the outpouring of tears came an outpouring of words. “It’s been a blessing enough to live with you like this, in the country, with no doctors shooing me away.” He took quick, unsteady breaths. “I know these rooms aren’t what you would have wanted for yourself, and you’re probably counting the hours until a better situation comes up, but this is paradise to me. Do you know that?” He sniffled. “Being with you every day, and every evening… it’s what I’ve always wanted. I don’t need anything more than what you’ve already given me. I swear that I won’t leave you, no matter what happens.”

My fists clenched at my sides. I, too, would not leave him. Not again. Not ever again.

He moved away. Continuously, he was making an effort to reassert his composure in front of me. “Maybe Mrs Fisher will know what to do with this mess I made. I’ll go ask her now.”

“No,” I murmured, with a faintness that did not do justice to the torrent whirring in my breast. I spoke his name again.

He cut me off. “I know you don’t feel the way I do. I know you’re a ladies’ man. I understand that you’re different from me. You don’t have to kiss me, not if it’s not just for my sake, not if…” He sniffled again, and refused to finish the sentence. “Are you acting like this for me because of something I did? It was my touching your hand, those times, wasn’t it? It was not supposed to signify anything more than a friendly thing. But it’s not something friends do, is it? I should have known that. It seemed all right with you, though, and… I’m sorry, never mind me. I’m talking nonsense. I will go.” 

As he neared the door, I cried out like a crack of thunder, “Don’t leave!”

He froze, ashamed and wide-eyed and filled with terror. We both were well aware of how much power I held over him, even though he clearly hadn’t expected me to stop him from going. I wanted so badly to hold him around his waist again, whisper sweet nothings into his ear, and keep him with me until he ceased to shake while wrapped like a butterfly in the cocoon of my devoted arms. 

“Yes, I am a ladies’ man,” I said. “I have loved and lost many women, and I’ve never had cause to regret them.” I did not mention that I have, in fact, been unattached for a few years. You can chalk that up to my whitened hair and weakened constitution, if you like. “And, yes,” I went on, “I’m not like you, if my suspicions of you are correct. I don’t have feelings exactly as you do.”

“Then—”

“However,” I pressed, with an honest, powerful conviction of voice that I didn’t know that I had, “believe me, I’m not against yours!”

He faltered. Normally, he trusted me in all things. I could see he did not believe me now. He was frightened, and overwhelmed. He was edging to leave the room. “What?” he breathed. 

I had half a mind to launch into poetry and compare him to our rooms in Ham Common. This tedious, dull backwater was not what I dreamed of having for myself as a younger man, much as my friend was not the dreamed-of partner. Like him, Ham Common is not exciting, nor glorious. No one here will ever be remembered or spoken off, except by their dull fellows in the houses next to them. Everyone gets along here, and no one is ever offended. Everyone is eager to pitch in when called upon—these people are like my friend in these respects. This is his sort of place. The remote wilderness of the common cannot match the extravagant beauty and the liveliness that is in the city, yet there is a certain softer beauty here. 

The beauty is not in the commotion of society, or in the struggles of sport, where I instinctively look for it; instead, it dwells in the flowers, the fresh air, the trees. It dwells in that adorable smile my friend flashes at me daily, and in his feet when he puts them up on the sofa, and in his hand when he gives it to me as a gesture of his high esteem for me. A quiet beauty; so quiet, it can easily be missed, in the haste of a busier life. 

I did not speak all these considerations aloud. Slowly, so as not to alarm him, I approached. “What you speak of is not a breed of affection that I would seek for myself. Neither, for that matter, is life in Ham Common.” I eased the shirt from his frightened grip. I tilted the tone of voice to a suggestive level. “Yet, to my astonishment, I do enjoy Ham Common,” I carefully intoned, “in its own extraordinary way.” 

As the meaning of the metaphor dawned on him, his arms rose and he covered his mouth, like an aghast lady. “You can’t mean—?” A spasm of emotion racked him. He stared desperately into my eyes, and muttered my name into his fingers—a plea it was, of some sort. 

I couldn’t resist. Holding the soaked shirt at a distance away from us, I swiftly embraced him around the circumference of his upper body. 

He sobbed his kind heart out into my sternum. He gripped me tightly. He veritably sank into my body, and I accepted him with all my being. His closeness was divine. While I am of a harder structure, he is perpetually soft and gentle to the touch. A rush of sweetness and faithfulness overtook me as I savoured his warmth and whispered reassurances into his ear. In my arms, he is treasured. More than that; he is safe. He usually has an ego to match my own for its grandeur, yet I am of the opinion that he may allow himself to cry all he needs to, when it is just the two of us.

It is a very interesting experience, to share in the intimate emotions of one’s best friend and life companion. Someday, when we are on clearer terms with one another, it would please me to sit at my reading chair, hold him in my lap while we read off our parts, and discover what other fine emotions he has to share. I’ll kiss his throat and his hair, watch him turn a delightful shade of colour, and see what feelings descend upon me then, innocent or otherwise.

When he had ceased to make another noise, I gave him a calming grin and clapped him on the shoulder. “I will take this to our good landlady with you,” I said. “I quite agree with you that she may have some trick to save it yet. I will throw a replacement on, and directly we’ll go.”

He nodded, and wiped his eye. I gripped his arm with added determination, so that some more strength would fly back to him from the touch of an old and ancient gesture. “All right,” he said, nodding again. Despite the satisfaction I’d had from holding him, I was impressed, too—and not a little moved—to watch him rally his spirits for me.

I hated to do it, but I had to run upstairs for a shirt to wear, so as not to startle the good lady by my state of relative undress. I did so in a tempest of a haste—so much so that I would later notice that I did not correctly align the buttons. Then, I came down, gently wiped his tears with my handkerchief, and hooked my arm in his. Together, when he was ready, we paid a visit to her rooms, and found her available. 

I fancy it would have amused anyone else that we should be made so powerless by a stain on a garment, but she lit up eagerly at the sight of the dirtied shirt. It must be a kind of sport to her, judging from how she took the job on. Also, she likes the two of us, and we like her as well, even though my friend is confident that it is me alone she likes. 

We haven’t spoken of the event since then. As I braced him by the arm while we were with our landlady, he did not shirk from me, though neither did he refer to the conversation of this morning. He appears to be very thoughtful. I have resolved to give him the time he requires to discover his own position on this matter. It is a complicated affair, and I will not think less of him if he is refusing to speak of it again so soon.

I, for my part, have reached my decision. 

My little tale is coming to an end, and still there is neither word of praise nor rebuke from the audience. By now, I have questioned myself as to why I write to you at all. The connections of family do not hold such sway over me as as they do over more traditional fellows. We live far apart, in the abstract sense as well as in the real one, and so our paths do not cross. Perhaps I write because my path begins to better resemble your own. That answer attracts me. I never could understand how you were able to settle in the country. That would make you an expert in a land where I am as new and unfamiliar as a foreigner.

It would be highly agreeable if ever our paths, which once diverged so sharply, did chance to converge one more time. Since you have continued to the finish of this particularly risqué letter, I can be sure that either my story fascinates you morbidly or you have some interest in the wellbeing of the parties involved. In any case, thank you for your time. Expect the sequel to come shortly. I continue to await your exacting counsel, and to be

Very sincerely yours,

Ralph


	4. Chapter 4

Dear Mrs ___,

I will assume that you read the other letters in their proper sequence, and have arrived at this one last. 

You will have noticed that this letter is stamped with a date that comes many months after those of the others. I learned some months ago that you were away in Australia, of all places, and would not return until the Ides of March, after the turn of the century. I supposed your mail was left waiting for you at your country home, and that my letters would await you upon your return. Well, I decided to hold off on sending the finale as long as I could, and for my patience I am able to give you a fuller ending.

That is not to say that I will relay to you the complete ending. You will allow that there are some things that even a man who is as loose with his morals as yours truly cannot write of in a letter to a lady whom he holds in the highest esteem. The salient points of the tale, however, will be made freely yours.

Last we left off on this curious undertaking of mine, any lingering doubts I had of the true wants of my dearest friend had been eliminated, and I had expressed to him my loyalty in the face of them. Well, after the adventure of the coffee stain, progress was not too slow in the making. 

He was embarrassed by the overt sentiment he had shown to me. Additionally, he was anxious that I should not adopt a position contrary to my nature, and grow to resent him in the process. This much he said to me plainly, the very afternoon of the day I last wrote to you. When he did, I begged him not to think along these untrue lines. 

I did not have any anxieties to match his own. In fact, I think that I was more full of my natural vigour than usual. Something about his mere presence has generally served to give me the boost of confidence that’s wanted, even when he himself is deficient in the stuff. From the rush of knowing that he had trusted me enough to confide in me, I could have taken on a mountain. Moreover, it seemed fairly clear at the time that there were no surprises left for us to confront. I alone had come upon my friend’s mortal secret, I alone had the intoxicating power to make use of it—and I alone wished to.

However, I proudly admit now that my friend did have another surprise for me. It is his inexplicable habit to astound me when I am most certain that I have him perfectly figured out. But you will see for yourself how he managed to amaze me with one of his rare bursts of determination and action.

The following proceedings didn’t happen the same day of our first confessions. It must have been several days after, and yet I struggle to recall if anything remarkable happened in the interim. Despite our new awareness of each other, our routines did not change. We ate together; we read together; we had our small bicycle trips together; we slept apart. 

It was my initial impression that he needed time to come to terms with our new understanding. My second impression was that he did not have the courage to make another step. Yet I desired that he be the one to make the second step for himself. Wasn’t he the intuitive expert in this development, and I but a novice out of his element? Of course, I have experience in my own sphere of romance, but I assumed that the process of courtship should vary for the different genders, and, therefore, that he (very naturally) ought to lead. I was all eagerness to see him in action.

However, he initiated even less closeness with me than before. His intimacy was at an all-time low. I do not suggest that he did not smile at me or spend time with me. He was more a friend to me than ever; it was only the visceral feel of him that was sorely wanting. 

“Lie with me,” I said to him eventually, once my patience had worn too thin. 

We were in the middle of taking advantage of the calm break in a long outpouring of rain. We had just returned from a pleasant stroll around the neighbourhood. He had not offered to put his arm in mine for almost the entire walk, and I had missed his closeness immensely. I would have liked for him to initiate it, and to be the one to solicit me, and he did betray signs of considering it, but I was not keen on waiting much longer. 

On the home stretch, I innocently put my arm in his, there on the rural road of the gleaming outdoors where anyone could see. He was startled, in a good way. He very speedily his pale and expressive face beamed as brightly as the flowers that our neighbours maintain. This unexpected joy from him that I should touch him—coming after his shy avoidance of me—is the very thing that had pushed me past my limit of abstinence.

But my suggestive words had shocked him. They had been calculated to. It was his attention on me that I longed for. 

I managed not to grin at my underhanded success. “Lie with me, in my beautiful hammock,” I clarified, belatedly, “and we’ll round off this excellent afternoon with a spot of reading. It seems to be the perfect weather for reading aloud outside the castle.” Then, because an evil had possessed me after more than a week of waiting, I spoke again in a deliberately double-sided vein, with the intent of prodding him into some action of his own. “How would you feel about taking up another work of Plato’s? A dash of Greek is just what I’m in a mood for, don’t you say?”

Somehow, the allusion to the Greek vice sailed over his simple head. He grew thoughtful, and I could see the twinkle of fond remembrance in his big eyes. It was plain that he was remembering our last reading of Plato, and enchanted by the memory of how we had both enjoyed it. “All right,” he said, blithely. I was more than a little ashamed of myself.

He went in and fetched the first Greek thing he could find. In the strictly technical sense, this piece was also a dialogue between two people, but that was only the framing narrative; it was really a debate amongst the Socrates chap and six or so other pretentious individuals at a party. The content of the work itself, I will not bore you with, for I hardly need reproduce something which can be otherwise easily acquired; besides, we hardly got very far in it on the first try.

He came out of the house to find me waiting for him in my hammock. I was swaying on my back, with my arms crossed behind my head. I wore a smirk and watched him, daring him wordlessly to join me. He shuffled about on his feet for as many seconds as he could without, I fancy, making it certain that his delay would be obvious. He was much too shy lately, it seemed to me.

He did join me, after kicking off his footwear. The hammock sank toward him as he jumped on. He took his place opposite mine, so that we were across from one another, arranged as we had been during that night under the twinkling stars and their imaginary connectors. His leg brushed too lightly against my side for my taste. He began to read from the heavy collection in his hands.

I said, “Stop.”

It might as well have been the spotlight of a constable’s lantern that had caught him. Startled, he blinked and dropped what he was doing.

“I say, you’re too far from me.” I waved lazily toward him. “Come to my side. There’s room enough for you beside me. I’d like to read from the thing while you read aloud.”

My dear friend hesitated.

“What’s the matter?” I forced a nonchalance that I did not feel. “You’re not afraid I’ll bite you?” But that capricious remark didn’t quite capture my heavy concern for him and his recent behaviour. Almost immediately, I dropped the tone of my voice, and spoke more seriously. “What’s wrong?” 

He bit his lip. “It’s about the war,” he said at length. 

“Ah?” Even though worries of my friend and his quiet desires had occupied my attention, the possibility of the war in South Africa winning out in his own mind had not occurred to me. I was glad to learn it, as this appeared to be an easier problem solved. “The fighting’s put you in a spartan mood, has it? Well, you needn’t let the guilt get to you. I doubt it will matter much to the boys at the front if you have a good time with me back home or not.”

“That’s not what I mean!” He bowed his head to hide his adorable blush. His substantial tome of Greek, meanwhile, he held closely to his bosom. It was an effort for him to speak, but under my gaze he pushed through it. “It’s how the war has affected you. I’ve noticed how much interest you’ve taken to the papers lately. I see that excited look you get. And more than once, you’ve talked about joining in on the excitement personally. You want to go fight in the war, don’t you?”

It came at me like a splash of cold water. I thought that I grasped what he was driving at. “You don’t honestly think I’ll abandon you for the front, do you?” Yes, I did have a genuine interest in the developments, and I admit that I occasionally entertained dreams of sailing down and joining in on the glorious action, but he would be wrong to think me so callous as to make off for war so soon after his spectacular reveal of his sentiments for me.

“No,” he retorted cheekily, “I’m afraid that you won’t go!”

That caught me off my guard. My brow creased. I propped myself up on my elbows as best as I could, despite the general antagonism of the hammock against all things vertical. I studied in his face that troubled, yet unselfish temperament which he was modestly trying to pass off as something less selfless than it really was. 

“I’ve never kept you back from anything,” he said to the grass, “or at least, that’s what I want to think. I understand why you want to go to the front. It’s just like you. I know what you’ve been thinking—it’s clear to anyone who knows you—that there’s nothing left for you here. Not in Ham Common, and not anywhere else in London. And I’ll be the last one to chain you here with my nonsense, when here isn’t where you want to be. Of course, if you’re going to enlist, then I’ll be the first to follow you. But it’s a funny bit of bad luck for me, isn’t it?” With his gaze coming back to me again, he tried to force a smile of his own; but you have discerned by now that he does not possess my talent for such deceptions. “I tell you my secret, and the very next day, this war breaks out and draws you right into it!”

This, I could not stick at any price. I sat up fully (as well I could) and responded gravely. “So, that’s why you’ve been avoiding me—because you don’t want to chain me to this place? It’s true that the war has a dark appeal to me, but I’m a better man than one who would leave you so soon as that.”

He reacted nervously, as though I was angry with him! “I don’t wish to sound resentful! Really, I’m not! I would never think meanly of you for going. You deserve so much better from me, for all you’ve done for me. Lord knows you’ve always given me more than I deserved!”

“And I do not deserve your—nonsense, did you call it?” I cut him off as softly as possible, before he could go on. “Your attachment to me, or mine to you—why should it be called nonsense?”

He didn’t know how to answer to his own choice of words. He stared at me, vulnerable and helpless. His self-doubting writer’s soul shined through him, unabated. I longed with a terrible intensity to pull him ardently into my arms and whisper the most sympathetic reassurances that I could imagine until he was smiling again, but I wasn’t done yet. 

“We are very different, and so your wants are different from mine; but that does not make them nonsense. Didn’t I tell you already that you cannot alienate me, no matter what?” At a nonthreatening pace, I reached for one of his book-clutching hands, and gave him a very steady grip from my own. 

His legs, which had been straight, now curled inwardly, though in the confines of the hammock they could hardly escape contact with mine, and I was selfishly glad for it. He was still at such a loss for words. He was too good to say it, but the desire to not be a burden to me was plain on his face.

I thought carefully on what to say myself. It was imperative that I make him understand that his slow paradise offered more to me than did the fast battlefield, and that all of his kind altruism is not enough to turn me away from my devotion to him. “You said that there’s nothing to keep me here,” I began anew. “I, however, know of one thing that keeps me—or, that once kept me. It’s something you might not have known of.” A long-held secret fought its way to the tip of my tongue. I had to clear my throat to make room for it. “Do you know why we stayed here, in this God-forsaken place?”

“Um, to avoid the public.”

“We could avoid the public anywhere. There’s a very particular reason I chose for us to stay in this dead and quiet corner, which was only supposed to be a temporary hole for us. When we settled in here, I understood that the perfect opportunity for my penance had arrived.”

He didn’t understand. “Penance?”

“I had penance to do,” I clarified, though the depth of the revelation that I was about to let loose upon him deafened my ears to my own voice. “I could at last make up for the one great wrong I’ve ever done in my life. It would be an eye for an eye, so to speak.”

He had the goodness not to snicker at my claim at having done only one great wrong. In fact, he was only sensitive and curious. “What are you talking about? What great wrong?” he whispered. 

“Why, the wrong I did you.”

“Me?” It burned me awfully how my humble companion was surprised to learn it. 

“Yes.” I spoke slowly and gently. “I cost you eighteen months, once, or don’t you remember? I couldn’t forget it. I had to do penance for it. For every day you lost in the inferno that you were sentenced to for my mistake, I would give you one day of paradise. Eighteen months in Ham Common it would be; just you and me, together in peace, the way you liked us best. That was my redemption; that was how I would undo the way I betrayed my dearest friend.”

He was floored. Even then I found some self-satisfied comfort in the delicious image he forms whenever I well and truly shock him.

“But don’t draw any erroneous inferences about my days spent toward redemption being burdensome to me,” I said. “True, this is not a paradise by my definition. At least, it wasn’t, at the start. I wouldn’t have chosen this for home, if not for you. There’s hardly anything for one to do in these parts, unless one gets creative about it—except for the rare nighttime ride. But it’s always been a private heaven on earth for you, day in and day out, or am I much mistaken? The simple life, my constant company, these long days that we spend doing little else but getting to know each other a bit better than we did the hour before—these things mean more to you than my own restless mind can comprehend. You’re such a bright, laughing fellow in this place, and I’m quite fond of seeing my truest friend in such a state. It’s doubly a pleasure, too, knowing that I’m half the reason for your gaiety. And your passion for simplicity has gotten to me, somehow. No, more than that, it’s you who has gotten to me. I suppose that even an insatiable devil like me is liable to soak in some of that contentment of yours, when you’re everyday overflowing it.”

His silence continued in full force. I couldn’t discern clearly if he was pleased, or sad. He was half-pouting at me, and looking me up and down, and biting his lip, thinking it over. I wanted to let him do so. I retracted my grip from him and glanced up at the sky as I looked back at old memories. 

“I sincerely tried to forget you, when I left England. I told myself you would never face any hard justice. Not you. How could you? You were only the accomplice who was dragged into the crimes of another. I was convinced that your coming abreast of the affair would save you from gaol. Besides that, your life would otherwise be much improved by the absence of monstrous influences. That thought left me free to find new thrills and companionship for myself in my new existence abroad, without the guilty memory of having left you behind. That would have broken me, otherwise.

“But you already know how badly my attempts at life and love in exile turned out. I found myself running back to the land of my birth very quickly, yet even then, I kept putting the thought of you off. I told myself that my closeness could only harm you, and I, coward that I was, was convinced by my own lie—until I chanced to read those prison articles of yours in the paper.

“I left you to the wolves, old boy, and you got eighteen rotten months for it! How could I have stopped myself from reading every line of yours in print in a dreadful fever, forcing myself to fully digest the lot that I condemned you to! And my disgrace and self-abhorrence only grew with time. As soon as we escaped civilization and came to the common, and I saw how this place transformed you for the better, I made my decision. I would make it up to you. For every single day that my loyal partner lost for me, I must pay him back with one of his best.”

“But, no, how can that make sense?” My dear friend’s cherished voice was slight, trembling, and thick with waiting tears. “We’ve been here more than eighteen months already. It’s been almost two years. Eighteen months have passed.”

Casting my gaze back upon him, I diverted irreverently, “Oh, has it indeed been so long?”

This dismissive mood, somehow, was the clincher. He stared at me as if I’d gone mad. 

“It was to be eighteen months, originally,” I explained with the sincerest insouciant air that I could manufacture, to spare him from feeling as if he owed me anything. “But then I remembered that there had been a few months after your release to freedom during which I still kept myself secret from you and you were still miserable. It was only fair that I pay you back for that unhappy period as well. I suppose I lost count of the days, after that. Not that the count matters anymore. That’s why I’m telling you all this; it can’t cause you any guilt now. And perhaps it will help you see that, in my brain, you’re in a tier above the rest. You’re the man I’ve relied on of years, the only one who’s understood me—the one man whom I trust with everything that I possess. I remain in Ham Common because I wish to be here with you—forever.” That word rang unexpectedly, like the clamour of a bell, in my own ears. “You won’t send me off to the front for the sake of a quick thrill or two, will you? What use do I have for that, when the best contest of men that I was ever in was never as lastingly satisfying to me as waking up each day to find your pretty sunniness waiting for me at the breakfast table? They can’t compare. No, I won’t leave. I staunchly refuse to give up this beautiful slice of paradise that—”—and I must be the rudest sort of person whoever lived for speaking with such outrageous daring—”—that my beautiful friend has made for me.” I had to catch my breath.

His tears came out in a rush. Disbelieving and amazed, he whispered my name incredulously. He let go of his book totally so that he could wipe at his eyes. 

That was the end of my staying back from him and granting him his space. Instead, I came very near to him, with my knees coming next to his. I fondly wiped his wet streaks away with my own fingers. “My penance is no longer just a penance,” I whispered. “I don’t know if it ever was only that. Somehow, in all the years when we were as one, you compelled the wickedest man in London to need your praise and your company more than light and air. What is your trick, I wonder? Are you a fairy, who casts his wry magic on me at night?”

The sincere flattery, the extravagant one-liner, and the care from my fingers combined to embarrass him to a delightful extent. “Why—I could ask you the very same, you know!” he replied, his golden, red-stained face beaming gorgeously once again. He shook his head at himself. “What you’ve done for me—and the feeling that you’re describing—I’ve felt that way for so long, and I can’t believe you really feel that way, too—and yet you seem to not even know the right word for it!”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is there a word for it?” There couldn’t possibly be a word for the feeling, because humanity could never have known a bond as extraordinary as ours before. Ours was one of a kind. Or, that was how it seemed to me, infatuated fool that I am.

He laughed erratically. “You ass! This Greek dialogue I was just reading was all about that one word, or weren’t you listening? Ha!” He slapped his face, and wept and laughed into it, and I just barely resisted a startlingly ravenous urge to kiss him. “You’re like those friends of Socrates,” he said, as he worked to rein in his giggling. “They say they’ve got everything figured out, but they haven’t!”

This gave me pause. 

“You don’t have to have it figured out, but I figured it out long ago, and I’ll say it now, by Jove, if it’s the very last thing I do!” Without warning, he gripped me by my chin and by the upper side of my throat. “I—I—I love you!” And then, he delivered that grand burst of action that I alluded to earlier. He fell onto me with a fervent kiss of his own. 

A quaking of the ground beneath the trees could not have moved me more. It was nothing like the tender embraces we’d shared until then—all of which had been led by me. No; this was my friend’s own orchestration, as I had long awaited, and it showed. His freehearted ardour lit a beautiful spark inside of me, one that I had never known before. He was a warm, living fire, drawing me in from a lifetime of numb cold. His touch was firm and passionate. One of his legs flirted between mine. 

I hesitate to enter into greater detail than that. Perhaps I will be forgiven if I review his effect on me in more virtuous terms: I may have been a flourishing ladies’ man once, but no one besides for this soft, sweet man was ever half of me. 

All of the thrilled affection inside of me, I let him feel for himself. I slid my fingers across his back and through his hair, and welcomed him closer by pressing upon him. It was too much for him to manage. Apparently, the years of suppressing himself were too suddenly reversed. He made desperate, whining noises that I rather enjoyed. At the end of his limit of air, he reluctantly pulled away to gasp, and buried his burning face into my chest.

My lips were still tingling, frightfully so. I was not breathing at the normal rate, either. I maintain that I am not the same species of man that my friend is, and have never so much as noticed another male in this respect; however, I began to distinctly perceive that there is some special place in both my heart and my body that is reserved for my companion alone.

“I love you,” he murmured with a sweetness that was so endearing that it hurt. “I don’t blame any of my misfortune on you. How could I? You saved me from ruin so many times—and at my darkest hour, you came back, and you made me your partner again. And I jumped at the chance back then without a second thought because, no matter what happens to us, I love you.”

My heart thundered in my chest. I could feel the pounding in the tips of my fingers. He had waited so long for this moment; I hadn’t earned the right to say those three words as he had, not as soon as this; so I did not say them. But I knew that, before long, I would say them. And until that came came, I would continue to be as devoted to him as he is to me. A new sense of fidelity and fullness of energy washed over me at my resolution.

When he made a brave attempt to turn himself around and regain stability on his end of the hammock, I kept him pinned on top of me, with the brashness of a fisherman who is keeping hold of his catch. He laughed at my admittedly infantile gesture.

“Did you really think I would let you go,” I breathed, “once you’d come over to my side of the sling? You’ll never be free of me again. Go on, read that piece you’ve got from right here. I am eager to hear what this ‘love’ idea is all about. It fascinates me greatly.”

My poor, long-suffering admirer! I can still hear how freely he laughed; I can still feel how he covered my lips with his, consuming me while his hands owned my face and throat. My larger hands came atop his, and I responded to him, though I couldn’t quite keep up with him. I was very correct when I supposed before that he would be, in manner of speaking, an expert and a natural in his line of work.

He did resume his reading, eventually, once his fits of laughter, tears, and fisting of my clothes had subsided. While he read for us, I embraced him to my lazy body, as I had longed to for so many days. I kept his head tucked underneath mine, and absent-mindedly caressed him along his arm and shoulder. I closed my eyes to the sound of his charming, breathless narration. It was a novel arrangement of our bodies, and yet it came to us with prodigious ease. Although, my lovely man was twice so overcome with an incredulous spirit that he had to pause in his reading to kiss me passionately again. I did not restrain my satisfied moan, and it was a surprising pleasure when that gratified reaction of mine made him weep anew. If not for the rain that came too soon to disrupt us, we could have lied like that all day.

Thankfully, that was several months ago. During those months we’ve had time enough to share. We are closer now in bond than we were even then. Though the war still fascinates me, it is a pitifully weak fascination compared to the very splendid one that waits for me at home. The sordid specifics of that fascination I will tactfully leave to your imagination, or refusal thereof.

Before I end this correspondence, there is one more thing that wants saying. The friend whom I have spoken of is not the only beloved person I have known who I meant to forget and be forgotten by. You, too, I meant to spare. That we have any past association must have caused some automatic pain on your part, when it was known what had become of me; and I am very sorry if my own colourful reputation did any damage to yours. Along these lines, I convinced myself that you, like my friend, would without a doubt be far better off for the severance in relations, present and future. My shadow would cease to darken your glow.

I do not like to be in the wrong. To have the ability to make a mistake and then gracefully own up to it is a trait that I respect in my friend but which God did not endow me with. Nonetheless, the thoughts of you that have dogged me these many months since I last wrote you have, at least, softened me on this point. I can finally bring myself to acknowledge: it is an absolute mystery to me whether you are improved by my absence, or not. And it is not a mystery that I can solve from here.

But I love you, much as I love him. It will please me greatly if that gives you any comfort, though the sentiment is not shared on the condition that it does. I wish I had not left you as I did, without so much as a goodbye. I regret that, deeply. You were only ever good to me, certain instances of competitive playfulness notwithstanding. I hope that my total departure from your map was not as hard on you as I fear to imagine it was.

If ever you find yourself with a day or two to lose in Ham Common, then there is an old friend here who is eager to pass a few nostalgic hours with you, and to properly make amends with you. He might also be glad of the opportunity to introduce you to his companion, and his companion to you. If, on the other hand, you choose to be rid of his influence for good, then he will understand.

Goodbye, old friend. Know that I will always be

Very sincerely yours,

Ralph


End file.
